


Hlíta

by orphan_account



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, M/M, Mild D/s, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn, Touching, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:32:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Athelstan is convinced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hlíta

Athelstan didn’t breathe right when he was dreaming. Too harsh. Winter had demanded they share a bed and already Ragnar could tell it would be a problem. He rolled over and looked in Athelstan’s sleeping face. Athelstan’s eyes jittered under their lids and his mouth had dropped open slightly. He moaned, a long, low, horrible sound that made Ragnar wince.

Lagertha shifted on his other side; she was big with baby and covetous about her sleep. She was covetous about the blankets too, so Ragnar had bought a bearskin from one of the Finnish traders at the dock and had her wrap herself in it every night. If Athelstan woke her she would grow a full set of bear’s teeth. Ragnar eased his arms from her and curled around Athelstan, hoping that would shut him up.

He woke up instead, and his eyes shone in the light from the hearth. Ragnar poked him in the chest.

“Go back to sleep,” he mouthed.

Athelstan looked at him with his liquid eyes – and they _were_ liquid, Ragnar realized. Athelstan was crying. He gave a great snort and pushed his hands against his face. A strangled, unwilling noise, an aborted sob, came tumbling out of his mouth.

Ragnar bit back a groan. He put his hand over Athelstan’s mouth, held it there tight, and folded him into his arms. Held him like he would hold Bjorn when he was younger and tantruming. Athelstan swallowed against his hand and lay unnaturally still with his head buried in Ragnar’s chest. Occasionally his shoulders would heave. 

Time passed. Lagertha sighed in her sleep and then was silent. Athelstan took a huge shuddery breath and pulled Ragnar’s hand away from his face. Ragnar’s chest just under the collarbone was damp with tears. Athelstan rolled over and curled into a little ball under the blankets and furs. He breathed, and breathed too harsh, and was silent.

Fuck, Ragnar did not say, and put his arms around both of them. 

* * *

Athelstan was hard to find in the mornings, not just because he got up early. Ragnar had gathered that he had worked inside at the temple – the monastery, he called it. He’d sewed clothes for the other priest and scratched pictures of serpents on the inside of books. Here he fed the animals and hid from the men, mended clothes in the corner of the pigsty, away from the welcoming circle of girl slaves. Ragnar had to walk up and down the courtyard before he found him, hunched in an empty shed, stitching and talking to himself in the other language, the one nobody understood. He had a little lamp in front of him and a crust of bread. He looked up when Ragnar came in and did not smile.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he said. His mouth was filled with pins.

“You didn’t wake me. I woke you.”

“Oh.” Athelstan spat the pins into his hand, began arranging them through the cloth.

Ragnar sat beside him. The ground here was cold and he could see his breath. “You had a bad dream.”

“Yes.”

“About?”

Athelstan jabbed the needle through the cloth and hissed; he had gotten his thumb. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked for a minute.

“Well?”

“Does it matter?” Athelstan wiped his thumb on his tunic, leaving a little smear of red, and found the needle again. This time he went smoothly, in out in out. “Bad dreams happen sometimes.”

“If you wake up my pregnant wife in the middle of the night it will matter.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“The funeral,” Ragnar said, “you’re bothered about the funeral."

Athelstan continued stitching, his brow furrowed.

“How do your people have funerals?” 

“We bury. We -”

“And we burn, so the people we burn are in Valhalla all the sooner. Are you worried about that slave girl? She’s in Valhalla too.”

Athelstan set his sewing down. He was trembling.

“You killed her,” he said. “She had done nothing wrong.”

Ragnar shrugged. “She wanted to be killed.”

“How can anyone want to be killed?” Athelstan was not crying but his words came out clipped and brittle. “She was drunk when I saw her. When I was drunk I told you how to invade my home.”

“Maybe she loved him,” Ragnar said, and then laughed at that. No one loved Haraldson. “Maybe she thought it better than the alternative. I told you, she’s in Valhalla now, at the side of the gods. Don’t worry about her.”

Athelstan picked up his sewing again and jabbed the needle through the cloth like a spear through a fish. Ragnar set his head against the wall and rubbed his aching arm. The wind outside picked up. 

“She didn’t scream when she died.” He spoke soft enough that Ragnar had to lean in. His fingers blurred over the stitches.

“I told you. Better than the alternative.”

“The alternative.” Stitch, stitch, stitch. “Am I still your slave?”

Ragnar groaned. “This again?”

“Am I still your slave?”

Ragnar mulled it over.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, you are my slave. I’d give you freedom but there’d be no point. I know you wouldn’t leave.”

“And you’re going raiding in a month. Two months. Whenever it gets warm. What happens if you die?”

“I’m not going to die.”

“You could,” Athelstan said.

“Are you afraid that I’m going to die or that I’m going to hurt you enough that you’ll want to die?”

Athelstan picked at his stitches. “I’m always afraid that you’re going to hurt me.”

“What?” Ragnar was astonished. “Why?”

“Well,” Athelstan said, his voice turning green with sarcasm, “well, I am your slave.” 

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” Ragnar said, slightly hurt himself. “Do you think so little of me?”

“I don’t want to think so little of you.” Stitch, stitch, stitch. “And yet you killed my brothers or sold them as slaves and brought me back here. And yet you kept me alive. And you’re kind. And you’re a murderer. And you invite me to your bed when you could just as easily rape me. And that girl, the one I keep dreaming about, she died because you were honoring a man’s life.” He sighed. “I don’t know what to think of you. I prayed that you wouldn’t die. I pray for you to be given good counsel. I think I’m supposed to hate you.”

Ragnar shrugged. Laid out like that, it was simple. “I’d probably hate me.”

Athelstan snorted. “I don’t trust you, that’s for sure. You confuse me. I can’t think right around you.”

He blushed when he said that and hid his face, but Ragnar had noticed and grinned. He chucked Athelstan under the chin. “You don’t trust me?”

“I can’t.”

“Come to our room tonight, then. Before Lagertha does. I'll teach you to trust me.”

He was aware that sounded like a threat. Athelstan looked at him askance. Athelstan dug the needle into the cloth like it was a knife through a man's heart.

Ragnar leaned over. "Do it or I'll kill you," he whispered.

That was not serious, or at least not serious in total, but Athelstan blanched and nodded. Ragnar mussed his hair and stood. The dawn was just breaking over the hills. He walked out into the grey morning, leaving Athelstan alone with his sewing.

He had plans. 

* * *

 

Athelstan came in the room and Ragnar slammed the door shut and wrapped cloth round his eyes. Athelstan stumbled forward and Ragnar caught him, wrapped an arm around his chest and pulled him close. Ragnar held the blindfold in a bunch at the nape of his neck and listened to him breathe. He was breathing like he was in the midst of a bad dream and he clutched at Ragnar’s arm, to pull him away, to seek comfort, Ragnar couldn’t tell.

 They stood there in the quiet room until Athelstan’s panting slowed and he dropped his hands from Ragnar’s arms. Ragnar twisted the blindfold back in his hands, tied it.

 “Do you trust me?”

“No.” Athelstan’s voice was a reed whistle. He coughed and tried again; this time his voice was normal. “No.”

“Are you going to stop me?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “I’m not going to hurt you.”

 Athelstan exhaled. He had his hands folded in front of him. Ragnar touched them; they were trembling, slightly. “Promise me.”

“I promise you.” Ragnar brushed his hand across Athelstan’s cheek. “Stand still.”

 He needn’t have commanded it – Athelstan was rod-straight and stone-still but for his trembling hands. Ragnar ran his hands down Athelstan’s sides and very carefully shucked him out of his tunic.

 He had never seen Athelstan without a shirt before, and paced around him to see all of him. Athelstan was muscular in some places, too thin across the chest; his ribs were showing. He had a network of thin scars, most white and delicate as spiderwebs, across his shoulders and upper back. Ragnar touched them. “What are these?”

“ _Paenitentia._ ” Athelstan swallowed. When Ragnar lay his hand flat on the scars his whole body hummed. “Um. Forgiveness. Regret. For my sins.”

 “What sins?”

 “Just. Sins.”

 Ragnar let it go. He came around to Athelstan’s other side and dropped to one knee. Athelstan shied back as he touched the laces of his trousers. “What – ”

 “I’m not going to hurt you,” Ragnar repeated, but he put his hands flat on Athelstan’s thighs and waited for him to calm.

 Athelstan took a few harsh breaths and nudged Ragnar with his foot. “What are you doing to me?”

 “Proving you can trust me.”

 “I – ”

“Priest,” Ragnar said, undoing the laces and gathering them in his hand, “I’ve blindfolded you. I’m a warrior twice your size and I could slam you into the floor and use you as a bed slave if I wanted to. But I’m not going to. You can be naked and blindfolded and, I don’t know, on your knees in front of me and I still wouldn’t hurt you. I _promise._ I promised I wouldn’t hurt you. _Trust me._ ”

 Athelstan was silent but not still. Not just his hands were trembling this time. Ragnar sensed it was done. He was about to stand up when Athelstan put a hand on his head. Not pushing him down, not holding him down, just there.

 “Ragnar.”

 Ragnar waited. He was still grasping the laces, holding them away from Athelstan’s body.

“Ragnar,” Athelstan said again, a little desperately, “I don’t – I don’t know what to ask for – “ 

“Do you trust me?” 

“I don’t know,” Athelstan said. He curled his hands around Ragnar’s shoulders.

“Do you want me to take the blindfold off?”

“No.”

“Can I take these off?”

“I’m afraid.”

“I promised – “ 

“Not of what you’ll do.” Athelstan’s shoulders dropped and he was blushing. “Of what I want.”

Ragnar put his hand against Athelstan, where the lacing was. He could feel Athelstan’s cock under the back of his hand, not erect or even half-erect but interested. Athelstan’s breath hitched and he moved his hips against Ragnar’s hand. 

Athelstan breathed again and Ragnar let the trousers fall. Athelstan naked was a sight. He had scars on his legs, but those must have been from normal things, brambles and bushes, not from – what was it – _paenitentia_. He had runner’s legs and a bright blue bruise on his left calf. He let out a muffled sob when Ragnar took his cock in hand. 

“You’re my slave,” Ragnar said. He traced the vein up the side of Athelstan’s cock and it went from interested to half erect, more than half erect, to full. “If you’re afraid of what you want, if you hate yourself for what you want, remember that. And _trust me_.”

Athelstan cried out as Ragnar slipped his cock into his mouth. He grasped desperately at Ragnar’s hair, at his shoulders. Ragnar grinned around him and swiped his tongue across the tip of his cockhead. Athelstan thrust into his mouth, clumsy and frantic with the shock of the new. Ragnar put his hands against Athelstan’s thighs and pushed back against the minute thrusts, holding him still. He set the rhythm, slow and steady, as Athelstan moaned above him, hands twisting in Ragnar’s hair, legs trembling.

“No,” he wailed, when Ragnar let his cock drop from his lips, “no, please, I haven’t – ”

Ragnar picked him up and he was silent, his cock brushing against Ragnar’s arm. The blindfold was damp. 

“Trust me,” Ragnar said again, and he set Athelstan on the bed, facedown – Athelstan tried to roll over and Ragnar pushed him down, gently but firmly. He arranged Athelstan so he was on his hands and knees and watched him, watched how he settled into the bed. The cross necklace he always wore was flung over one shoulder, pinned there by sweat.

Athelstan stiffened when Ragnar kneeled on the bed, relaxed a bit when Ragnar carded his fingers through his messy hair. Just for a moment. There was always a horn of oil hung off the bedpost, so Ragnar could sit on the bed and sharpen his swords, or so Lagertha could sit on Ragnar’s back and finger him until he cried. Ragnar found where it hung and dipped his fingers wit it. Athelstan stiffened again when he touched him, a sticky hand on his lower back, two fingers down his cleft. “What are you doing?”

“Guess.”

Athelstan laughed into the mattress, a shaky sound half-muffled. “Oh God.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Athelstan drew his legs apart and Ragnar streaked more oil onto him. The first finger went in with barely a gasp and the second slipped in a moment after. Athelstan laughed again, a little stronger this time, and dug his head into the mattress, and then he screamed, muffled, and Ragnar pushed the spot again and Athelstan sobbed, bucking back on Ragnar’s fingers.

“Quiet,” Ragnar said, stroking Athelstan’s back with his free hand.

“I’m going to die.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m going to die if I don’t – ” Athelstan pushed back on Ragnar’s fingers, tried to rut against the bed, and his breath hitched. “Please, Ragnar – ”

Ragnar pulled his fingers out, unlaced his own trousers one-handed, keeping a hand on Athelstan’s pale back. The oilhorn spilled when he put it back down again. He didn’t care. He put his hand through Athelstan’s hair and pulled him up, just slightly, so his back was a little straighter. He leaned down and put his lips to Athelstan’s ear. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” and Athelstan’s gasp when Ragnar entered him could have shattered a heart. Did. Ragnar pulled him sideways and whispered in his ear, good priest, sweet priest. Athelstan pushed back against him and Ragnar guided his sweaty hand down to his cock. “Breathe, priest.”

Athelstan was confused; with the blindfold, with his own cock in hand, with Ragnar pushing behind him, he did not know where to go. Ragnar dug his fingers into his sides and kissed the back of his neck, made him twist around so he could kiss Athelstan’s dry lips. Athelstan grabbed for Ragnar’s arm and pulled it up around his chest so he could be held tight. Little breaths – ah, ah, ah – came out of him whenever Ragnar thrust.

He came first, of course, spattering his hand with white, and he moaned when Ragnar pulled out of him, rolled him over, and finished on his back. Ragnar pushed the small of his back so he would collapse down flat and licked himself off of the _penitentiae._ There would be handprints, fingerprint bruises, maybe a scratch or two, noticeable tomorrow Nothing on his neck. Nothing above his waist.

Athelstan was heaving shaky breaths into the mattress. Ragnar stroked his back, where the stickiness was. “Did I hurt you?”

Athelstan arched up against the touch. Ragnar noticed the oilhorn and hung it back where it was supposed to be. It was empty, staining his side of the bed. Lagertha would kill him. He tapped Athelstan’s back. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Do you trust me?”

That came faster. “Yes.”

He could have taken the blindfold off. He did not. He petted Athelstan’s messy hair and tucked a blanket round him. “I promise I’ll never kill you.”

Athelstan didn’t laugh but his harsh intake of breath was sweet enough. Ragnar lay down on top of him and kissed his neck. “No bad dreams.”

“None,” Athelstan agreed. He hesitated, and then he rolled over. Felt around for Ragnar’s face and kissed him. He hasn’t had any practice and he half missed Ragnar’s lips but it was a good kiss all the same.

Lagertha came in. She raised her eyebrows at the blindfold, raised her brows even more at the stain. Her robe fell to the floor and she climbed naked into bed next to Ragnar. Athelstan winced at the bed creaking and she laughed and reached over to touch his lips. “It’s all right, priest. I’m not jealous.”

Ragnar laughed. He knew his wife. "Yes you are."

"I'm not very jealous," she amended, and punched Ragnar in the shoulder, "and only of you." She put her arms around him and squeezed. "Are _you_ all right, priest?"

Athelstan draped his arms around Ragnar's neck, curled up close to him

Lagertha flicked Ragnar at the back of the head. "What did you do to him?"

"He's fine."

"I'm fine," Athelstan echoed, his breath ghosting across Ragnar's chest. "Trust me."

Ragnar snorted, and Athelstan snorted, and Lagertha punched Ragnar in the shoulder again, and when Ragnar woke up in the middle of the night Athelstan was quiet and breathing softly.

Good, he didn't say, and undid the blindfold, and fell back asleep.


End file.
